


Waylaid

by hellkitty



Series: Waylaid [2]
Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Other, Sticky Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For the kinkmeme, written to keep myself from spiralling into the failswamp. Ironically I spiralled anyway, as I screwed up the header while posting. A-at least I'm consistent in screwing everything up?</p></blockquote>





	Waylaid

Wing crept down the corridors, ducking from shadowy alcove to alcove, his blades ready but deactivated: he didn’t dare risk the hissing blue of the plasma.This was recon only, until and unless he had a solid plan to rescue the captives. He hated it, but a sloppy rescue would do more harm to them than good.

He was here to learn the floor plan and defenses.He pressed his wing panels against the wall, suspending his ventilation as he heard the heavy, padding steps of one of the burly creatures Braid used for guards.Brutal, they were, but unclever, hastily distracted. Far better to elude than engage.

Engaging anyone at this point was a matter of the most final resort.

The steps moved past him, a shadow flicking over the alcove’s threshold. He waited, counting the regular, unsuspicious strides until they receded beyond audibility.

Wing moved. He’d already plotted the path to the cells: his mission this time was to find Security. If he could find that, he could disable the alarms, possibly even remotely unlock the cells. It was vital for success.

And he hated every hour, every day of suffering the captives had to endure while he had to plan, to search, to work in slow, silent, unhelpful ways. But this was the best he could manage, alone. He tried to take some comfort in that: he was trying and endangering himself.

Wing slipped down the corridor, opposite the way the guard had gone, his own padded feet soundless on the decking. He wished he could read the alien scrawl on the doorplates—labels, graffiti, but it matched nothing in Crystal City’s libraries. A hole in their knowledge, a gap he had to fill. And it wasn’t like he could stop and ask.

Security had to be in the heart of the ship.He moved closer to the central core.

More footsteps, a pair this time, behind him.Wing stabbed at the first door panel he came to, hoping it was unlocked.He dashed inside as it opened, willing it to close faster, hearing the baritone rumble of their speech begin to float down the corridor.

Not safe enough, he felt. He whirled, and saw a door, large and white, at the far end.Another door between he and any pursuit. He opened it, his spark fluttering as he heard the door behind him code open, begin to slide on its pneumatic track.

Once through, he pressed himself against the wall on the other side, optics closed, straining his hearing through the door for any sound, any sign of pursuit. He heard only mumbling, the tone calm, conversational.

He ex-vented softly. Now all that remained was escape.

Wing opened his optics.

And froze.

He was not in a room: he was standing on a ledge in a large chamber, the ship’s core, which ran the height of the ship, far below and far above him. It was white and stark, so white the shadows were merely washes of blue, and the light seemed to ripple as though through water.

And suspended in the room, a massive creature, a thing of clearness and light, tendrilled and swaying.Lights of various colors rippled across it, through its appendages, tracing bring lines in the translucent mass.

One appendage reached up, brushing idly, curiously, at Wing’s cloth-wrapped leg. He could feel a buzzing tingle through the fabric, a sense of mass without weight.He froze, uncertain, thumbs on the activation keys of his blades.

The appendage slid upward, twining over his thigh, as though feeling its way up something unknown.

He was unknown, Wing realized, an alien presence in this long white chamber. “I mean no harm,” he whispered, the sound ricocheting around the room, like a slip of paper in a storm. The appendage hesitated then seemed to solidify, a bar of light, jerking Wing off the ledge.

His wings flared in alarm, striving for balance, the motion shredding the brown fabric of his disguise, his knives falling from him as the appendage swung him into its own mass, where others joined it, and he found himself caught up in the center of a web of the light-form limbs. They tugged at him, wrapping around him, tearing off the remains of his clothing, the smaller ropes snapping after tension, the fabric hissing as it tore.

Wing struggled, briefly, as the thing enveloped him, all too aware of its greater mass, but for all the tentacles wrapping around him, interlacing under his armor, pulsing and squeezing at his limbs, he was not being crushed.Still, it was suffocating, and every kick, every twist of his was caught, neutralized.He had no escape.

For the first time in a long time, he was helpless.Not helpless as before, needing to plan and plot before action, but helpless, all of his training, all of his spark and will…useless.

He was afraid, and a short whimper broke from his vocalizer, his wings trembling in the tentacles that held them.

He flinched, gasping, as one limb spread into a dozen fine tendrils, snaking around his helm, slithering under the heavy armor, and then slipping home into a sensory port.

It was with him, the lights pulsing faster, more excited, as the cool tendrils opened a one-way link between them. And it felt his fear.

The limbs loosened their grip, backing off, lights pulsing in cooler colors.Wing took a nervous vent, shifting his position. “Please,” he said, the words this time caught in the velvety cilia of the tentacles cocooning him, “I mean no harm.”

No harm.

The thought seemed like an echo, his own words pushed gently back at him. It meant no harm, either.

The limbs slid over his body, gently, caressing, as though trying to soothe his upset, sweep away his tension.They feathered over his wings, sending shivering trembles of pleasure over his net. He twitched as one or two explored the joins of his thighs, slithering under the small skirting panels, flirting with the pistons and wiring underneath, and skittering laterally to the solid rise of his interface hatch.

Wing whimpered at the touches, curious and gentle, not resisting as other, larger limbs wrapped his knees, spreading his thighs apart, then sliding down the seams of his silver limbs.His hands clutched empty air, his spinal struts arching upward.

His hatch popped open, his interface equipment lay bare to the creature’s touch.He felt a query along the link between them, asking permission. He nodded.The thing meant no harm. It was merely curious, and right now the touches felt too good to want to say no.

Not that Wing had ever been much into self-restraint, not in matters of pleasure.

More tendrils appeared, above, below him, supporting him, stroking down the seams in his armor, caressing his throat, his belly, his wrists, his ankles, the sensitive spots in the backs of his knees.And one explored his equipment, circling the cover of his valve, the electric tingle sending waves of sensation over Wing’s net. He felt heat building, in his systems, felt his valve nodes release a wash of lubricant, eager and wanting.

Another appendage joined the first, pulsing a soft, golden light, pushing and surging at the valve’s entrance, as though sensing there was something behind the thin blades of metal.  The light seemed to ripple around him, like a stone cast into a sunny lake, warm, interested. 

The cover clicked aside, abruptly, Wing’s sensors having reached their threshold of patience, and the tentacles explored, slowly, tasting the valve’s rim in slow, rolling movements, before probing in, delicately, uncertain and unwilling to harm.

Wing twisted upward, his mouth falling open, optics lidding as the tentacles pushed deeper, sliding in the warm wetness of the valve’s lubricant. It felt…like nothing else he had ever felt before. Spikes were rigid, ridged, and fingers, though more supple, were hard and jointed, but these? These were mass without rigidity, fluid, expanding and contracting, twisting and bunching in ways no cybernetic system could emulate.

It was exquisite, his valve nodes tripping with ecstasy.

He could feel them, sliding inside him, curious for his pleasure, experimenting, waiting for the feedback of his body—his heating systems, his ragged breath, his trembling hips.

Another appendage joined them, circling the valve’s rim, flicking gentle licks over the brushed steel.

And then another, thin and red-lined, whipping over his thighs like a lash, causing him to arch and cry out, before wriggling through the others in his valve, fast and excited, squirming through to the top of his valve, thrashing over his ceiling node as the others continued their slow bunching and surging.

It was all too much, and Wing keened, the sound caught in the mass of the light creature, valve cinching down, spasming against the limbs of light.His whole world seemed to be made of white and bliss, gentle touches cradling him through his ecstasy, fascinated by his writhing response.

Good? Another thin thread, a note plucked on a thin wire, from the creature.

“Yes,” he said, out loud, realizing as he spoke it was not needed.But the creature caught the sound, and began humming it back to him, the cilia on its limbs vibrating with the note, sending velvety shocks over his body, sweeping him into another kind of delight. It liked the noise, he realized. It liked the vibration, the notes.He let himself moan, and let the creature take the sound, twining it with harmonies that played through both of their bodies.

He felt the notes travel through him, through the creature, felt the creature’s own pleasure, almost joy, at what was apparently a rare treat—touch, noise, interaction.

It was the ship’s AI, he realized, a thought that the link verified. A silicate creature, vast and homeless, kept in this stark chamber, its entire body made of data. And it wanted more, always.

Another limb descended—or rose up. Wing had lost the sense of up and down, left and right, and only knew that a blue-lighted limb reached for him, for the spike cover that had retracted during his overload. His spike’s head just jutted from the opening, quiescent but aroused.And the thing was curious again.

He couldn’t resist. He didn’t want to: he let his spike release upwards, watching the limb push to meet it, at first twining around the spike’s silver length, tasting the contours, squeezing the nodes, and then withdrawing for a moment, as though contemplating.The red limb, the eager, active one from before, wriggled out from his valve, causing Wing to quiver, joining the blue, as though joining knowledge.

And then the limb bunched, thickening, as though substance was dripping down it from above. It pushed itself onto Wing’s spike, pouring itself around the head, enveloping the shaft in its substance, pushing down and circling tight at the base.

Wing was gasping for breath, unable to tear his optics away from the blue-lighted limb. He could see his spike through it, buried in the transparent mass, turgid and aroused and wanting.

And it knew what he wanted: the thing was still connected to Wing’s response-net, had studied firsthand the function of a valve. It began squeezing his spike, sending long waves of pressure up the shaft, then down,little rings of blue light forming, constricting around him. The tentacles in his valve rolled, slowly, just enough to remind him of their presence, pushing against his valve’s walls, filling him, even as the limb on his spike kept up its work, slow and gentle, of rolling its tightness over his spike.

Wing thrashed, energy building that had to go somewhere, his body aching for release. He wanted the tempo to pick up, wanted to thrust his hips, piston into the firm, supple substance unlike any valve he’d ever known, but the limbs held him fast, without traction, so he could only twitch and quiver and whimper, as his spike was tormented with its own arousal.

“Please!” he cried out, hands gripping for anything, clutching at the yielding substance of the light-limbs around him. “I’m…I’m going to--!”

The warning was too late, his systems caving into the rising charge.He saw his spike jerk, inside the blue rings, saw the silver transfluid jet from its head, and then saw the same peristalsis that had worked the overload from his spike pulling the fluid away, sucking it up, like a sample, into the creature’s mass.

Wing hung, limp, wrung out, exhausted by the overloads, his body trembling with release, letting the limbs hold him, quiescent now, slow, as though refractory themselves.

He felt a query through the link, formless and beyond words.Why was he there?He answered, he hoped, in thoughts this time—the captives, their misery, his burning need to free them.

The link went silent for a time, and then, he felt data, hard data, arrive, a small packet—the ship’s plans, codes, everything.He was startled, stammering a belated ‘thank you’.

Another query, and Wing felt his memory tapped, an image brought up. He felt his facial plates heat, barely managing an embarrassed ‘yes’.

The limbs untangled themselves from him, giving him enough space to transform.He’d…not done this in a long time, since arriving on this planet, and the sheer force of memory made him tremble, even as the tentacles wrapped gently, lovingly, around him again, supporting him like firm clouds.

He released the armor over his interface hatch, on his alt’s belly, cycling a nervous vent.The last time, it had been under an open sky, Dai Atlas topping him, Wing flying on his back, belly-to-belly with the larger airframe. And the other’s spike, joined with his valve, cinch-locked, Dai Atlas taking over his flight controls, streaking across the sky in a spiral of ecstasy, air screaming over their bodies as though echoing their desire.

Here, the creature’s limbs rushed in again, pushing at his valve, spreading the lining, feeling, echoing his tremulous want.  And then stilled, waiting, patient, ready to learn this, too. Flight-interfacing required a strange, utter surrender and Wing gave it here, letting his awareness drop, utterly, wanting the cool strike of air on his flight forward edges, to his valve, rolling and squeezing at the limbs inside him.His nacelles revved with arousal, his valve squeezing at the limbs. It was selfish, self-focused, wanting and taking. All he missed was the sky, the sound of another's powerful engines, pulling them through the cloud-dappled vault of the sky.

The creature sang, humming the sound of Wing’s nacelles, the sound a tickling, irresistible vibration in his valve.

He shuddered, valve surrendering to release, squeezing at the limbs that now wriggled, writhing to life inside him, after their patient stillness. He gave a groaning sigh, overcome with pleasure, glad for all the limbs around him, holding him, supporting him as he nestled against them, dropping into a blissful, sated recharge. He had the plans, the codes, he’d gotten what he came for.

And quite a bit more.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme, written to keep myself from spiralling into the failswamp. Ironically I spiralled anyway, as I screwed up the header while posting. A-at least I'm consistent in screwing everything up?


End file.
